To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  Maybe this Gica Dinantu was one of that bunch.

  But they worked in teams, during the day.

  And this had happened in the early hours of the morning.

  What was he doing in Mickey French’s house at that time of night?

  How did he get there?

  The begging gangs usually travelled by train. And the trains would have long since stopped for the night.

  Maybe his accomplices had done a runner.

  If he was a lone burglar, he would at least have had a bag with him. And a few tools. And some way of getting there. And getting away.

  Nothing.

  Marsden tipped the dead man’s belongings onto his desk. A dodgy Rolex, a gold ring.

  He picked up the watch. Hang on, this wasn’t one of those moody kettles you could buy in the pubs in Cable Street for a fiver. This looked kosher.

  There was an evidence bag, too, full of money. It had already been counted. Over £400. Cigarettes, a lighter.

  But no papers, no ID.

  No problem. No need. Marsden now knew who he was.

  He opened the post-mortem report.

  Death by gunshot wounds.

  Tell him something he didn’t know.

  Male, aged twenty-one to twenty-four, smoker, had drunk approximately half a bottle of vodka in the two hours before he had died, evidence of recent cocaine use. Also evidence of recent sexual activity.

  Half-pissed, coked-up and fresh from a leg-over.

  So what the fuck had this Gica Dinantu been doing in Mickey French’s house in the middle of the night? Marsden asked himself again.

  And there was something else troubling him.

  Immigration had his age down as sixteen. The postmortem puts him between twenty-one and twenty-four. The medics were usually spot on.

  Was this the same guy? Were these the right prints? Had there been a fuck-up?

  Anything known?

  Marsden turned on his desktop computer, logged on and punched in the name Gica Dinantu.

  File not found.

  Marsden studied the typed-up reports from the scenes-of-crimes officers and the detectives who had been drafted in to do house-to-house. When he was ready, he had Mickey brought from the cells to the interview room.

  ‘Dinantu. D-I-N-A-N-T-U. Gica Dinantu. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Mickey.

  ‘He’s, was, Romanian.’

  ‘Nice for him.’

  ‘You don’t seem to realize what a serious predicament you’re in here,’ snapped Marsden.

  ‘Oh, I realize, son. I realize better than you know. But I’ve told you what happened. What else is there?’

  ‘Motive, for a start.’

  ‘Self-defence, the best motive there is,’ Mickey replied. ‘Man breaks into my house, middle of the night, I feel my life threatened, use reasonable force to stop him. End of fucking story. What does it matter who he is?’

  ‘He’s an asylum-seeker.’

  ‘So what was he doing in my house in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself that question over and over.’

  ‘Are you going to charge me or let me go?’

  ‘I’ve applied for an extension, further inquiries.’

  ‘I’m not going to do a runner, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Marsden, matching Mickey’s glare. ‘This is going to be done dead straight. I’m not going to be blamed for bailing a murderer.’

  ‘Alleged murderer. There you go again, Colin. Rushing to judgement.’

  ‘I’m not rushing to anything. That’s what I keep trying to tell you. There are aspects of this case with which I am not comfortable. I have further inquiries to make before I can charge you, before I know what to charge you with, or decide whether I’m even going to charge you. Until then you’ll remain in custody,’ Marsden said.

  He knew that this was going to end up way over his head. The CPS – Crown Prosecution Service, or Criminal Protection Service, as it was known within the police force – would take the final decision as to the charge.

  There was a chance, what with Mickey being an ex-cop, and a weapons man to boot, that the investigation would be taken out of his hands.

  He didn’t want that happening. He was still only acting DCI.

  If he handled this well, got a result.

  This could be his big chance.

  Forty-seven

  This could be my big chance, Roberta thought.

  She’d rushed back to the office, logged in to her computer and checked the Gica Dinantu file.

  No one had visited it since her.

  Good.

  She trashed it out of her own queue.

  There was still the central record.

  Using the skills she’d gained on a three-month computing and data course and the privileged security access her rank permitted, she tracked the file back through the system, carefully deleting every mention of Gica Dinantu.

  She was able, finally, to enter the internal system of the nick to which Ilie had been taken after his arrest at Tyburn tube station and remove the original file.

  No one would know he had ever been inside a police station, even if they bothered to check.

  And you know what these local CID boys are like. Bone idle.

  She imagined the DCI at Angel Hill. Probably in his fifties. Sclerotic, alcoholic, disillusioned, all ambition long since spent, counting the days to his pension, anxious to get the case off his book.

  Once he’d established the identity of the body, interviewed the locals, talked to the folk back at the hostel and realized there was no next of kin, he wouldn’t dig much further.

  With Mickey French being ex-Job, he wouldn’t be keen on prosecuting him, either.

  In fact, the more Roberta thought about it, this hick detective, whoever he was, would probably be absolutely delighted if someone from Scotland Yard pulled rank and took the entire case off his hands.

  Roberta was home in bed with Dixon before the identity of the corpse at Heffer’s Bottom leaked out in time for the late television news.

  She woke early.

  Fleet Street’s finest had spent the previous day crawling all over Heffer’s Bottom and the story dominated the first editions.

  GUN COP SHOOTS BURGLAR – The Daily Mail.

  BULLSEYE! – The Sun.

  VIGILANTE MURDERS REFUGEE – The Guardian.

  News of Mickey French’s encounter led the bulletins on all radio and television channels.

  Other talk show hosts picked up where Ricky Sparke left off. It monopolized the early-morning phone-in shows.

  Roberta Peel was back in her office at 7.30 am. She called the Home Secretary at his private residence at 7.31 am.

  ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you,’ she apologized.

  ‘Not at all. I’m due on the Today programme in about half an hour. The radio car’s setting up outside. The latest asylum figures,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s partly why I needed to talk to you. I think that we have to consider the wider political implications of this shooting in Heffer’s Bottom,’ she said. ‘There are certain considerations here, Home Secretary, not least for the Metropolitan Police Service and, you will appreciate, for the government itself.

  ‘The shooter in this case is an ex-police officer. We must be seen to prosecute him without fear or favour.

  ‘The victim is a refugee from oppression. We have to demonstrate that all are equal under British law. You will, of course, be alive to the possible repercussions at a time when the government’s, if I may say so, enlightened approach to asylum is under assault from the forces of conservatism.’

  The Home Secretary listened intently and murmured agreement.

  ‘I believe,’ Roberta continued, ‘that the strategic sensitivity of this case demands the involvement of a senior officer. I would be happy to take that responsibility upon myself, if that is what you would wish, Home Secretary.

  ‘In light of our conversat
ion at the anti-racism seminar the other day, I thought it only appropriate to run this by you before I spoke with the Commissioner.

  ‘The way in which we handle this case will put down a marker for the future of policing in Britain, indeed the entire development of the culture of law and order and race relations for decades to come.’

  The Home Secretary mulled it over and gave her his answer.

  ‘Thank you, Home Secretary,’ cooed Roberta. ‘So you’ll call the Commissioner yourself? Excellent, Home Secretary. So much better coming from you. Oh, and Paul, give my love to Mary, won’t you?’

  Roberta replaced the receiver.

  Three minutes later, the phone rang.

  ‘Yes, sir. If you think that would be appropriate. I’ll make the necessary arrangements and clear it with division. It would be an honour, sir. Thank you, Commissioner.’ She smiled.

  Roberta buzzed through to her secretary.

  ‘Get me Angel Hill police station, please. Acting Detective Chief Inspector Marsden.’

  Forty-eight

  Mickey French spent a comfortable night in the cells. He knew quite a few of the local lads. They’d sent out for pizza for him and let him use the showers. The sergeant had told one of the PCs to fetch Mickey a change of clothes from the house.

  Today the custody extension would expire and they’d have to charge him or bail him.

  Even if they did charge him, whatever they charged him with, he was confident of making bail before a magistrate.

  No reason not to grant him bail. Unblemished record, clear-cut case of self-defence.

  He’d be home before Andi rang from Florida.

  How would he explain it to her? She’d be worried.

  Still, no great cause for concern.

  Mickey rubbed the sleep from his eyes and splashed cold water on his face.

  No cause for concern? Out of here by lunchtime.

  Hang on, who was he kidding?

  Start thinking like a cop, Mickey.

  Put yourself in Marsden’s place.

  Look at it from a police perspective.

  They’ve got a dead kid, an asylum-seeker. Unarmed.

  They’ve got a trained marksman, full of booze, playing with his guns in the middle of the night.

  Forget what the kid was doing in the house at that ungodly hour.

  What was Mickey doing cleaning his guns in the early hours?

  How convenient that the magazine of bullets just happened to be at hand.

  When he saw the kid lying there, stone dead, he showed no remorse, nothing. Not even when the cops arrived.

  What were they going to read into that?

  Maybe he could have overpowered him. He was only a kid, after all, not much older than Katie, not much bigger than Terry.

  Would he have acted differently if he’d been stone-cold sober?

  Couldn’t he have shot low? Brought him down.

  Did Mickey really have to shoot to kill?

  It was how he’d been trained, sure. But trained to deal with blaggers, terrorists, men in balaclavas with sawn-off Purdeys.

  Not fucking kids.

  Was it because he was angry, because of what the pikeys had done to his house, to Katie’s photo, to the cat?

  Did this kid pay for all that?

  Reasonable force?

  Reasonable?

  Was it really reasonable to shoot dead an unarmed intruder?

  Mickey, what the fuck have you done?

  Too late for that. Too late for what if?

  More a case of what next?

  Until this moment, it had felt as if everything which had happened to Mickey and his family over the past couple of weeks had been cleansed in gunfire.

  Mickey had been telling himself that, finally, it was all over.

  Now cold reality dawned.

  It was only just beginning.

  Forty-nine

  Marsden was re-reading the house-to-house reports and checking them against the newspapers.

  Fleet Street seemed to have found out a damn sight more than his own officers.

  Marsden supposed the papers could have made half of it up, but they certainly made themselves busy. What did they know that he didn’t?

  Each newspaper coloured the facts with the prejudices of its own readers.

  You paid your money and took your choice.

  They ran the gamut of bigotry.

  Mickey French was either hero or villain. Avenging angel or cold-blooded murderer.

  Gica Dinantu was either thieving, scrounging vermin or a slain innocent.

  Right or wrong.

  Black or white.

  Colin Marsden bought none of it. His world comprised dozens of shades of grey.

  Still, he would crack it.

  This case had national significance.

  His big chance.

  Marsden’s concentration was disturbed by the telephone.

  He’d been half-expecting the call.

  Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel on the line.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, sitting to attention.

  ‘We do have everything under … I see … yes, completely, ma’am … indeed I will … of course, ma’am … look forward to working with you,’ he lied.

  Big chance, eh?

  What did this ball-breaking bitch know about investigating murder? He’d read a profile of her recently.

  Bramshill, fast-track, community relations, anti-this, anti-that, all men are rapists, that kind of bollocks. Her career had been one long committee.

  Still, she was the future, like it or not. And he didn’t.

  But it was a long time to retirement. And look on the bright side, Colin, it could all work out for the best.

  She was tipped for the very top. If he made the right impression, she might take him with her.

  He’d always fancied a job at Scotland Yard.

  Bite your lip, Colin.

  By the book, remember?

  Colin Marsden tipped another spoonful of sugar in his coffee. To help the medicine go down.

  It was still his case, he told himself.

  Not that he really believed it.

  Marsden had faxed all the relevant paperwork to Roberta before she left the Yard. She read herself in on the way. She had plenty of time. On a good day, the journey from Victoria to the Essex borders could take an hour and a half. This was a bad day.

  Roberta instructed her driver to take her directly to Heffer’s Bottom. She wanted to inspect the scene.

  The house was taped off when she arrived. Forensic had been and gone. There was a patrol car outside and a WPC on the door.

  As her car drew up, she could see the WPC talking into her personal radio. They had been expecting the DAC, but not at the house. Not just yet.

  The young woman cop stiffened and saluted as Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel approached the house, carrying a briefcase, and introduced herself.

  ‘I’ve informed inspector, sorry, acting DCI Marsden, of your arrival. He will be here directly, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘And who told you to do that?’ barked Roberta.

  The poor girl reddened.

  ‘The acting DCI, ma’am.’

  ‘I see. Get him on your radio will you please?’ Roberta asked.

  The WPC contacted Angel Hill control, which patched her through to Marsden.

  ‘I was just leaving, ma’am. I’m sorry. We were expecting you at the station, first,’ he said.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I can find my own way around. I’m sure the WPC here can help me with anything I need to know,’ Roberta said.

  ‘I’m not sure she’s competent, um, in that regard. I really think –’ Marsden stalled.

  ‘I am merely here to familiarize myself with the crime scene, inspector,’ Roberta informed him, with an abrupt air of authority. ‘I’m already up to speed. Your preliminary report is excellent,’ she said, gently releasing her command structure grasp of Marsden’s balls.

  At the other end of the
line, Marsden breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too bad, after all.

  ‘I’ll be fine, inspector. I’ve got your drawings, your notes. I’ll take a quick look round and join you shortly.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am.’

  Roberta smiled as she clipped the personal radio back above the WPC’s left breast.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I don’t bite. I was a young Plonk once, believe it or not,’ she reassured the petrified girl, who laughed nervously.

  ‘Er, ma’am, would ma’am like me to accompany her inside?’ the WPC asked.

  ‘No, I’ll find my own way. You just stay here and keep everyone else out. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the WPC, not daring to make eye contact.

  The door still lay in the hallway, where it had been kicked down.

  Roberta picked her way into the living room and closed the door.

  She would have to be quick. Maybe twenty minutes, tops.

  Where would Mickey French keep it?

  She rested her briefcase against the sofa. Her eyes darted round the room. She checked the drawers in the dresser, careful to replace everything.

  She rifled through the cupboards in the kitchen, putting everything back as she went.

  Roberta opened the kitchen door and stepped into the garden. The shed. A real possibility. Men kept all manner of secrets in their garden sheds.

  She went inside. Weedkiller, a few old garden tools, seed packets and a chipped workbench. She opened the drawer in the bench. An old copy of Playboy, a yellowing Sporting Life, a rusty pair of scissors, an empty half-bottle of scotch.

  Nothing else.

  Roberta made her way back into the house.

  She opened the cupboard under the stairs. The usual collection of boots, trainers and family junk. And a gun safe.

  Maybe he kept it in there.

  Too obvious. But then again. She looked through the drawers in the living room again, searching for keys.

  She found a bunch at the back of a drawer full of videos.

  One by one she tried them in the lock of the gun safe.